Clockwork
by Judithan
Summary: Fed up with the lie he's lived, a boy makes his way from home to a strange abandoned tower in the sand of a desert. Life is finally alright, until he becomes obsessed with a researcher's work, and becomes something he had never expected. Maybe the nightmares were never meant to end. Epros x Ari. Implied Ari x Stan. Multichapter. Slightly AU. Spoilers! Epros-centric.
1. tower of gears

Clockwork.

Summary: Fed up with the lie he's lived, a boy makes his way from home to a strange abandoned tower in the sand of a desert. Life is finally alright, until he becomes obsessed with a researcher's work, and becomes something he had never expected. Maybe the nightmares were never meant to end. Epros x Ari. Implied Ari x Stan. One shot. Slightly AU. Spoilers! Epros-centric.

Note: I've been wondering where Epros came from, so this is a fanfic about his origins. As a result, it is pretty AU, but there are some spoilers for in-game events. Also, some of the dialog in the in-game events are skewed, because I don't remember all of what was said.

(x)

One foot after another, the desert didn't allow for much more than that. Even with the wonderful amount of shade provided by the perpetually setting sun, the temperature was still far too hot for the usually sea-side-dwelling boy. With a bit of exasperation, he wiped a hand across his forehead, trying to remove some of the sweat. His efforts were to no avail, considering how clammy and dust-covered his hands were. A disgusted sigh escaped his lips, and he peered onto the horizon, trying to find somewhere that would be suitable for setting up a camp.

Over the sand domes, he spotted what appeared to be a giant, looming tower, and he might have been giddy in excitement at the discovery, were it not for the fact that sand was invading every piece of clothing he wore and permanently souring his mood. It wasn't like he didn't have dozens of outfits in his backpack to replace the one he was wearing that was now –unfortunately- ruined. 'Doesn't matter, though' he thought to himself, his step hastened as he made for the tower.

Coming closer, he noticed that the tower was rusty and made mostly of gears and metal plates. The tower of gears was sunken into the sand, and it took him several minutes to find the door of it that was partially covered by the accursed sand. Not caring too much for it, he begrudgingly dug his way down, unearthing one of the doors just enough to open it.

'I hope no one's inside.' He mused to himself, only to rationalize that, considering how buried the door was, no one had probably been there in months, if not longer.

Opening the door, the boy was hardly surprised when he found the main foyer to be filled with broken machines and obnoxious amounts of –surprise, surprise-sand. Sighing to himself, he let his aching feet rest, sitting on the cold floor. Walking all of the way from Rashelo had been taxing on his body, while leaving his family had mostly left him feeling discontent and aggravated. That was all in the past, though.

'None of that matters, anyway. They didn't need me; said so themselves.' He thought bitterly. Around him was sand and machinery, and it did nothing for the headache that was forming in the back of his skull.

'Wonder what the rest of the tower is like.' And without a second thought –but brief hesitation, due to the sheer tiredness of his body- he set off to investigate the rest of the rusty building. After passing a doorway, he found himself staring at a staircase, winding around to the left, and he groaned in exasperation. The last thing he wanted to see right now is stairs, but if it couldn't be helped, he'd just have to brave them.

After walking up several dozen steps, he a small hallway leading out of the stairwell, and even though the stairs still persisted upwards, he took a brief reprieve to see where the door led. It stuck fast, but with a bit of force, and a good, solid kick, it creaked open. Behind the door was more machinery, but with a pleasant lack of sand. In the middle of the room sat a bizarre apparatus of sorts, with a desk on the far side of the room, littered with books and notes. The boy ignored it, since it wasn't on the top of his priority list. Right now, all he cared about was finding a bed, and maybe even a bath to wash up in. Considering how much food he brought with, as well as the wild game he found wandering just out in the desert, he wasn't too horribly panicked to find food.

Leaving the apparatus room, he continued ascending up the stairs, finding another room with the same hallway set-up. Fortunately, this door wasn't so stubborn in opening, and just needed a light push. Inside was what he had been looking for; a bed, messily made, and a bath with a sink next to it. If he had to make a guess, he'd say that whoever once occupied this tower used this room as their bedroom. Since he had brought his stuff with him when he made for the stairs, he was able to simply drop his stuff and sit down, finally able to rest easy.

However, since he knew that it wouldn't do to get sand in the bed, he made for the shower first. When the water came on, he was pleasantly surprised; in a place as old and unmaintained as this, having a working water system seemed too good to be true.

Taking a hand under the cold water, he was even more shocked that it appeared to be clean, drinkable water. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't have contained the smile that came to his lips. He removed his clothing as quickly as he possibly could, groaning when the grimy, sand-covered cloth rubbed against his skin. That didn't matter, though, since he was finally getting out of this god-awful outfit that his mother had once claimed looked so 'wonderfully handsome' on him. Oh, how he was going to shred it when he was finally clean. Taking a moment to grab soap and shampoo from his bag, he decided he was ready to embark on the most wonderful adventure of his life; getting clean after trekking through a god-forsaken desert.

Getting into the tub, he felt almost overjoyed as the sand and grime that had stuck to him washed off easily, the soap easing everything off almost instantaneously. Even though he would never admit it, he spent nearly an hour in that mostly freezing tub, cleaning himself and soaking in the fact that this was what freedom felt like.

Once he felt adequately clean, he removed the cork from the drain, removing himself with haste. Mentally, he chastised himself for not setting a towel out before, but it didn't really matter; the air was warm, and there wasn't anyone there to see his glory. However, he still felt obligated to wrap up, and promptly did so. It took several minutes of rummaging through his bag to find one, since he had brought enough supplies with him to make himself comfortable for a _very long while_; and luckily the charm he had placed on his bag made it worlds lighter, so carrying it was hardly a chore. If there was anything he knew about magic, it was that it could be used for both brutal and practical purposes. Somehow, his family always seemed to neglect that.

He spent several minutes wrapped in a towel, staring at himself in the dirty mirror above the sink. To say he looked tired was an understatement, but with the way his long, wavy, blonde hair went all the way down to his shoulders, it wasn't surprising what words his father had to say about him. That didn't matter, though. He was done with those people, and now he was finally free. A thought popped up in his mind after staring at his blue eyes in the mirror; something needs to be changed, to mark the new life I've begun.

He pulled the cards he fought with out of his bag, careful to not bend them –he learned the price of what bent cards did the hard way, considering the tree-branch-like, lightning scar he had on his right thigh. They danced around him, happy to see his familiar face once more, and he smiled back at the animate objects.

Light formed in his fingertips, and with a white flash, everything in the world blurred for a moment, before returning to normal. He felt slightly drained from the use of magic, since he never had the talent for it like his sister did, but he didn't mind the feeling too horribly anymore. At least, not as horribly as he did the first time he was forced to use magic.

Looking back in the mirror, he smiled at the new pigment of his eyes.

Red was most certainly a good look on him.

After taking time to admire his new self-improvement, he dressed; a simple dress shirt tucked into his favorite pair of red pants, with black dress shoes. Typically, he would have thrown on an overcoat of sorts, but the desert was far too hot for that. Besides, he wasn't trying to actually impress anyone. This was simply so he wouldn't be caught off guard by any unexpected visitors.

He pulled on the creaky door, finding it opening a bit easier now that he wasn't so horrendously exhausted. Knowing what lie for him on the lower floors, he continued his previous ascension. The walls became less and less rusted as he continued up and up, almost looking new by the time he reached the third door. Inside was something he hardly expected; bookcase upon bookcase covering every surface inch of the walls, with a single, surprisingly comfortable looking, loveseat in the middle of the room. The boy assumed that this is what his father would refer to as a 'study', but he didn't care too much. Some pages and books littered the floor, but it was so far the best kept room in the tower.

Though, there wasn't much to see there that he couldn't save for later, and he backed out into the stairwell, and set off again. One foot after another, he almost felt like he was dying from the motion. In Rashelo, he never had to climb up obnoxious amounts of stairs, or even worry about giant, rusty towers filled with them, but here he was; in a tower of gears, trying to find what lie above each floor.

The next –and final, considering how the stairs ended at a wall- door he found was slightly different from the others, as it was a double-door, and looked almost new –it even appeared to be wooden. With a determined huff, he approached the door, finding that it opened like a dream, compared to the apparatus room's door.

Inside this room was a beautiful view of the desert, a massive window taking up a good portion of the wall. Even with the wonderful bedroom on the second floor, this is what he would have considered as the 'master bedroom'. On the far side of the circular room stood a large, king-sized bed, neatly made and covered in dust, red-wood bed-posts coming up close to the ceiling. Between each post were thin curtains of black, matching the black bedsheets. He smiled happily as he examined the rest of the room, finding a bathtub identical to the one in the lower bedroom, as well as a matching sink and toilet. Even if there was no food storage in the entire tower, he wasn't too horribly worried; he had been taught how to salt and dry meat before he could even spell his own name.

This sparked a thought in him; names. If he had changed his eye color to break away from his past, wouldn't it make sense to change his name as well? But, to what, exactly? He couldn't remember anyone from Rashelo with a name he would be proud enough to call his own, and all the stories he had been fascinated in always had a protagonist with names like 'prince charming' and 'the Great Hero'. And surely, calling himself Hopkins would be too much, no matter how full his ego was.

Peering at the dresser, he noticed a journal of notes, with handwriting identical to the ones on the desk of the apparatus room. At the bottom of each conclusion of notes was the same name, over and over. The boy flipped through the hand-bound journal, finding each page to be filled with tables and charts, with notes scrawled every which way, but on each page, the same name was placed neatly in the lower outer corner.

He tested the name on his tongue, saying it aloud over and over, finding it to taste pleasant –as opposed to the hideous name his parents designated for him. Each time he said it, it sounded far less foreign than his own name, and without much thought, he felt it fit into his identity. From that day forward, he would go by the name of the lonely scholar who once occupied the tower of gears. From that day forward, he would be known as 'Epros'.


	2. the phantom

Before he had even realized it, two entire years had passed Epros by, and not a single person of Triste was of enough interest to him to pass the time with. He couldn't care too horribly, though. He was too busy surviving week to week and obsessing over the dusty, scribbled notes of the scholar whose name he shared.

Where he sat, in the apparatus room, he was practically drowning in the journals and notes of the deceased scientist. From what he had gathered from somewhere around the billionth time he studied the journals, was that this man was attempting to create a new type of magic –actually, it would be so powerful it would be a new classification- that would give someone unlimited power, in exchange for a good majority of their sanity. Each chart was a table for deciding how different variables would affect the same formula, and each was just as equally fascinating as the last.

A bag of nuts sat in the teen's lap as he gazed at a journal that he had labeled 'formula f, part 13'. In total, there were eighteen formulas, each one with parts ranging from two to twenty, and each one was so wonderfully interesting. His mouth was parted slightly as he skimmed over another formula chart for nearly the twentieth time, still absorbing knowledge about how each part contributed to the whole.

Behind him sat a massive, machine bound journal that he bought from a wonderfully bland merchant in Triste, and he was hastily looking back and forth between each of the dusty journals, scribbling notes and formulas as quickly as he could comprehend them.

With the two years he had been working on this new classification type, the one that his name-bearer hadn't been able to complete, he felt so very close to a breakthrough. However, he had been feeling that for the past six weeks, and so far nothing had happened.

Another thirty minutes or so elapsed, and his nuts had been habitually eaten, and he was in need of more of the salty stress-relievers in order to occupy his mouth – a while back, he learned that keeping his mouth chewing kept his teeth from grinding due to anxiety. Anyone else may have thought he just needed company, but all he wanted was more snacks.

Making his way up the stairs, floating up them in order to avoid tripping on his slightly-too-long sleeping pants, he reached the supplies room. By now, he had stopped using the lower bedroom as a bedroom, but rather as a storage room for his supplies and food. It made it easy when he didn't want to go out to catch anything to eat, or float over to Triste for a bite to eat at one of their perfectly forgettable restaurants.

However, just as he was about to reach the snack of his desires, in order to continue his research, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the wall opposite to where he stood was the dirty mirror, somewhat cleaner now, after one of his futile attempts last year to clean the tower, and the reflection in the mirror was exactly what he didn't want to see.

His blonde, wavy hair, which he had once desired to grow out to ridiculous lengths, was now exactly where he used to want it, and he felt so disgusted by it. A voice in the back of his mind said 'you look just like your mother', and it was true. There was no doubt that his hair, all golden and down to the small of his back, was making him look like the one person he hated with every fiber of his being.

Without a second thought, or hesitation, he grabbed a knife from his butchering set –one that he had bought from Triste, like everything else that he hadn't brought with him from home, years ago- and yanked a fistful of hair. Knife met hair, and he only felt content after hours and hours of this repeated process.

The hair that once reached his wrists now barely came to his shoulders, and he couldn't be happier. The shirt he wore, so simple and blue, was now coated with bits and pieces of his golden locks, but he simply stripped it off, shaking it clean, before buttoning it back up.

Now, he was becoming the person he wanted to be.

With his vigor renewed, and a weight off of his shoulders, he continued to grab his snack and continued on to complete his research for the night. His obsession for magical power wouldn't allow him to stop.

He sat down in the center of the hurricane-shaped pile of journals and picked up right where he left off, formula f, part 13. Every night for the last year and some odd months, he would sit in this room, surrounded by the journals of a man long gone, and emerge himself into the scrawled notes. Every word was worth a million sukels, and even if no one could appreciate the meaning of it but him, he couldn't care less.

This new magic –classification, he would remind himself, over and over- would make him more powerful than anything his parents could have ever hoped to get from his 'wonderful, talented, little sister.' With this new power of his, he would spit on everything they've worked for, and cackle when they begged for mercy.

'Well. That certainly was a new thought.' He casually mused to himself, testing how he felt about the idea. In the end, he reckoned that he felt indifferent about it, and settled for picking up a new journal, this one being from formula b. Not even new ideas, scary and horrific, could deter him from configuring the formula for this magic circle which would, inevitably, give him the magical power he always craved.

'Always?'Epros bit his bottom lip, pulling himself from the research as he tried to figure out just what it was his subconscious was getting at. When it silenced, he reemerged himself in the notes, scribbling variables and symbols, patterns and diagrams. He didn't have time for nonsensical thoughts.

This went on well into the night, and before long, he found himself waking up the next morning, a piece of paper adhered to his face by –what he assumed to be- dried drool. 'Gross' he thought to himself, red eyes squinting in disdain as he realized that he fell asleep on his journal. Of course, since he had no one to live for but himself, staying up late and sleeping well past noon was hardly of consequence. However, sleeping anywhere but the fluffy king-sized bed upstairs left his back feeling tense and knotted. Though, when he checked the clock on the far side of the room and found it wasn't even morning, he felt a bit more at ease.

That didn't matter though, since when he looked down, he remembered exactly what he achieved the night before; the final formula in the magic circle. Sparks lit up in his eyes, and he reached for his pen. When he found it –for some reason- on the other side of the room, he willed it to him with his powers, and scribbled the formula several times over, with different number values for each variable. When each repetition of the formula checked out, he smirked maliciously to himself, a cackle beginning to form in his throat.

It had been so long since he had used his voice for anything other than quiet transactions that he nearly forgot what it sounded like. A violent joy filled his heart, as he laughed harder and harder. In what was a flurry of papers, he cleared all of the notes and journals away from the apparatus's floor wiring –he wasn't sure what would or wouldn't affect this, and with himself being the first and only test subject, he had to take the utmost precaution.

Across the room was a box of white, enchanted paint, which he knew was used for magic circle inscribing. A man in Triste sold it to him at a high price, and was so cautious about selling it that he told Epros that "even one drip of paint can ruin an entire circle, so take the utmost care when creating whatever formula you're planning." The man seemed nice enough, and Epros made sure to take his words to heart.

Paint and paint brush, the teen couldn't trust his shaking hands to draw the circle, and controlled them with his powers. The action wasn't physically draining so much as it was mentally exhausting, but before he could even realize it, the circle was coming together, piece by piece, one variable and formula at a time.

The white paint almost completely covered the machine's floor wiring, every inch of the circle being filled by a formula of sorts, with lines forming geometric shapes that would act as commands. Everything about this magic circle was carefully calculated over months of Epros's research, combined with what he assumed was years of work of his predecessor.

Red eyes scanned the magic circle when he triple checked and quadruple checked it over, making sure that he didn't leave out a single formula or variable. This could possibly be the end of his existence, but he wouldn't let that stop him. The sun was going to rise in less than an hour, and he knew he would see it, just like he did every day before then.

One foot after another, he stood atop the apparatus, and released the energy welled within his body. The circle glowed white, before engulfing him in a bright pink light. Tingles were sent up his spine, and he could feel a pressure of power that he couldn't even fathom in the pit of his gut. This was most certainly what he had slaved for months over, and no doubt what his name-bearer had given his life to. This power, of unimaginable proportions, was what he would give his very sanity for.

When the light faded, everything seemed to return back to normal, save for the feeling of magical pressure sitting warm and proud in his chest. Scanning the room, he noticed that the once white paint was now a much darker color, almost charcoal, and he figured that it wouldn't be able to be used again. That didn't concern him too terribly, though.

He made his way upstairs, his back somewhat straight, even as he glided –pride filling him to the very brim. When he opened the double doors of his bedroom, he saw that the sun was beginning to peak above the desert horizon. That interested him for all of a few moments, however, as he soon realized how exhausted he was from sleeping on the cold, mechanic ground – if only for an hour or so. With the flick of his wrist, one of the black curtains that adorned his bed was pulled back, and he flopped gracelessly on the fluffy mass.

Sleep came just as easily as the first of his nightmares did.

(x)

The next time that Epros went to Triste, to restock on snacks and other weekly necessities, people were suddenly more than their usual bland selves. He began to notice the smiles on some of their meek faces, and the discontent of others. Suddenly, the perfectly boring residents of this perfectly bland town became these emotional, real people.

'Either I'm becoming as boring and bland as these people, or something has happened to them to wake them up.' In all honesty, he couldn't decide which one sounded scarier, but settled on the idea that something had happened to them.

Talking to the street vendor like he did every week and a half, he noticed that the usually silent, bored looking man was chatting to him vigorously, as though a fire was sparked in his mind. However, every time he would finish a statement of whatever boring opinion the teen found he possessed, the man would end it with "Wouldn't you agree, Phantom?"

In fact, with every person Epros interacted with, that's all he would hear them refer to him as, despite how he knew that they all knew him by name. However, he couldn't let their inability to call him by his actual name alter his mood; he was on top of the world and was determined to remain there. Without so much as another word out of his mouth, he took his usual bounty of nuts, fruit, and basic, household necessities, and went on his way. People would give him stares as he proceeded out the back entrance of the town, all of them shocked and catty that he could leave while they were all stuck to live their boring non-existences in the temperamental, snow and sand infested town.

Passing over the stone maze and other worldly obstacles, he made it to his tower in little to no time, compared to the long trek he had to endure when he first found his would-be home. Humming a sweet tune to himself, he made to open the door of his tower. However, the sound of shuffling behind him made the teen rear his head back, weary of being ambushed –he learned his lesson about half a year back that every sound was worth investigating.

Before him stood an older gentleman, dressed in a red suit and with yellow eyes that practically burned into the teen's soul.

"I've heard that you have changed your classification, all on your own." The older man's voice was as aged and silver as his hair, and sounded as equally malicious as it did inquisitive. Epros's fists clenched, and if he hadn't been carrying his weekly groceries and supplies, he may have already gone for the cards that were now dancing around in his spacious pants-pocket.

"Indeed, I have, and what business is it of yours?" Voice like quicksilver, he was having none of this suspicious man's questioning. Only two nights prior had he changed his classification from 'run-away teenager residing in a tower' to whatever it was that he was now, which he had yet to decipher from his predecessor's notes –the name of the new classification had been smudged from something that had happened in the past.

"What classification have you put yourself under?" The man was having none of his attitude, and stepped forward a few steps, trying to appear menacing. In this new angle, Epros noticed that the part of this man's eyes, which should have been white, were black as night, and with the way his mouth curled down and eyebrows furrowed, he was a force to be reckoned with. However, that excited the teen just the slightest, because many months ago all of the enemies of the area had become too weak for his satisfactory fighting; sometimes he would kill monsters just because he could, and it was a great way to get out of the tower and get a bit of color on his pale skin.

"I don't know, but I know that it isn't any business of yours." He backed up all the while the man was advancing, and mentally cursed when he felt the familiar doorknob bump into his back. Of course, he would never let it show just how horribly he was at a disadvantage –he was a true fighter and a gentleman, and neither of those would let on to anything less than being the best at what they did. In a briefest of moments, Epros tossed his supplies to the side, careful so that they didn't flood with sand – if this was going to end badly; he was at least going to start it fairly.

"As the sole creator of this world, I believe it is. Now answer me, what classification do you believe you have placed yourself under?" A desire for blood boiled in the area where his power now resided, and the teen had to grip at his black slacks to keep himself from decking this arrogant son of a bitch right in his oversized nose. Of course, it wouldn't do to get blood on his new, white dress shirt, but sacrifices could be made, he rationalized.

"I'm not-"

" ." The words dripped out of his mouth like venom, poisoning the teen's mind."Now what faction would you like to be; what title would you give yourself?" Time stopped for a long moment, as Epros thought about what he could possibly call his classification – naming things was never something he enjoyed, despite his love for the poetry that his tower's previous owner kept in the study.

"Phantom."He spoke, without a second thought. "Phantom Evil King." Everyone in town was referring to him as such, so why not make it an official part of his identity –at least, that's what he was thinking to himself as it rolled off his tongue.

"As you should be." He murmured to himself, but just loud enough that the newly dubbed 'Evil King' could hear him –if the teen didn't know better, he might have thought it was on purpose.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Words tear from his mouth, and he prays that the sheer nastiness in his voice is enough to make this pretentious douche step off, but he knows it won't. Doesn't hurt to try, and it helps soothe his aching ego a bit –being considered as a 'brother' of the members of Triste has never been one of his life goals. If anything, it had almost been an anti-goal of his, something he worked against.

"Now, I can tell that you don't have a clue how to use your powers, so as a trade-off, I'll cast a spell on you that will make them easier to control, but…" At this, Epros's face contorted to one of mock-approval, because the nightmares he had been experiencing as a result of it were simply too much to bear much longer. Whatever it was that this grey-haired menace had to offer, the teen was glad to take it.

"'But' what?" Contracts always had their downfall; he knew that for a _fact_.

"You must rhyme everything you say from now on; treat your words as if it was poetry." His voice was deadpan, and for the briefest of moments, the blonde was debating bursting out laughing. To think, he thought that this man was even partially sane. What a _joke_!

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Under a veil of equal, deadpan, stubbornness, he hid his internal fit of laughter. After all, he may be a teenager, but he could feel the magical pressure that emanated off of this man, and knew that he was not a force to be reckoned with. At least, that's how he felt some of the books he had recently read would word it. Personally, he felt that the phrase 'back the fuck off' did the trick nicely.

"Try it. Insult me -but rhyme it."

"You're the most stupid person on the planet, I'm sure you'd even name your son Janet." As soon as the words left his lips, he could feel the intense pressure in my chest being reduced to a gentle force, hardly even noticeable.

"Do you feel it?" A smirk danced over his lips, and if it weren't for the fact that he now owed this man for his stupid curse, the teen would have drawn his cards and smacked his shit-eating expression clean off his face.

"This is truly ridiculous." Even with the gratifying feeling of the weight of his powers being lifted from his chest, he pretends to have pride, and dismisses the old man. His fists have uncurled for the most part, but are still holding tight onto his supplies.

"It's a charm that I've been working out the kinks of, and it seems to be a winner." The old man flashed him a dark smile, but quickly wiped it from his face. It seemed that his smile disgusted even him. Epros couldn't help the small chuckle that erupted from his mouth, his lips contorting into a crooked, disgusted smirk.

"Wow. So I was a Guiney pig?" Malicious and passive aggressive, he tried as hard as he possibly could to contain the temper that he never realized he had –must be the heat, he thought to himself amid the heated conversation.

"Maybe not today, but one day you'll thank me, and you'll seek me out, to repay me." And without another word, just a knowing look and the snap of his fingers, a cloud of black and red engulfed the grey-haired man. When the mist subsided, he was gone, and the teen looked around, a violent malice forming in the pit of his stomach, the weight of his powers returning once more.

"Like hell I'd thank you for a stupid curse!" He yelled indignantly into the sky, but with no one to hear it but himself, he quickly gave up. After all, nothing indicated insanity like a one-sided screaming match with the sky. He hastily grabbed the bags tossed into the sand, unlocked the tower's front gate, and slipped inside –relocking the front door once it was latched closed. Once he was safely in the foyer, he slid down the metal door, exhausted by his trip and exasperated by what just happened.

'Evil… King? What does that even mean?' A vision of terror invaded his mind's eye, and he curled up into a ball. This wasn't what he wanted, at all. He wanted power, but not at the expense of his humanity. However, the nightmares that visited him at night had different ideas, as did the thoughts that would invade his mind during the day. Visions of bloodshed and the ringing sound of screaming, and he may have been okay with it in a half-asleep daze, but he simply couldn't dismiss them in the sunlight.

(x)

Years passed by Epros, so many years, but he did not age past his prime, and the people of Triste changed with death and newcomers. After a while, the Evil King no longer bothered to learn faces, let alone names. Rhyming his words became second nature, after he had spent so many nights awake cowering from the nightmares that his powers gave him. And, despite how he thought the curse would affect him, it didn't ruin his reputation so much as it adds to it; a fanciful wizard who speaks like a brilliant poet.

Even if he wanted, he couldn't remember the face of his parents; the ones who taught him to be the person he never wanted to become. They were the people who had driven him to succeed above all else, and he couldn't even remember what they look like.

Soon after he realizes this, he finds the air in his tower choking, as opposed to freeing.

For the second time in years, many, many years, the old man who gave him his curse visited him. Nothing was said, simply because Epros could tell what he wanted just by the look in his eyes –he had come to collect the debt the young man owed.

Without another word, the young man gatheredup all of the materials he needed – several changes of clothes, the expensive circus-makeup that he had bought on one of his few trips to the Pospos hot spring, his deck of cards, and all of the money he had saved up from years of hunting. This wasn't anything close to how it was when he had left his parent's house, so many years before, because this would always be his home.

He gave one last, almost procrastinating look in each room, to guarantee that he wasn't leaving anything behind but the dusty, long forgotten journals of his predecessor and the books in the library, all of which he had read several times over by now. Taking the rusty, gear-topped key in his hand, he locked the door for what he felt would be the last time, at least for a very long while.

"All set?" The man's voice was far less sarcastic now, presumably because of how time had shaped him. However, Epros never bothered to ask, so he wouldn't know. The young man nodded slowly, taking a moment to double check that everything was in order in his bag. When he was satisfied with that, he confirmed with another nod, this one worlds more confident.

"What is your name, and for what have you came?" The young adult had never bothered to ask before, and felt that now was an appropriate time. After all, he was going to be in service to this man. Epros watched his face go from something of mirth to an almost pained, reminiscent smirk.

"Beiloune."Even though the question had two parts, the grey-haired man never did answer the second half, and let it hanging. However, neither of them bothered too horribly, since they had to depart from the desert. Just like how it happened, many years past, a black and red cloud engulfed him, but instead of dissipating, it continued on to Epros's form. In a matter of second, darkness enveloped his vision, and the tower of gears and the comforting heat of the desert was now just a memory.


End file.
